Archive for the ‘My Man’ Category

The Clothes Line Murderer

This is my sweet man, Hunky Farmer Boy. He’s the lone source of testosterone amidst a sea of about five dozen females of various species. I think you’ve met previously.

This is Hunky Farmer Boy on his Tonka Toy. (This is where you hear the Tim the Toolman Taylor grunting sounds.)

Boys and Their Tonka Toys

My Hunky Farmer Boy with His Big Tonka Toy

For reasons never fully understood by me, HFB likes to use his Tonka Toy to pull things out of the ground. You’d think he’d get enough of that working as an electric lineman, but apparently not. Apparently, they put more poles in the ground than they get to pull out of the ground, leaving him somewhat unbalanced. So he has to spend his leisure time on the farm pulling stuff out of the ground. Big stuff. Or at least sorta big stuff. Most of the time, I’m okay with that, because as his director of operations (aka bossy britches wife), I am usually giving my approval to what he removes and often times I’m assisting in the process. Most of the time.

Sidenote: Men should never be allowed to function without a woman telling them what to do. It just isn’t natural, and truth be known, it’s dangerous. Someone could get hurt. Or worse. Get pee-ode. Like me.

This is the back yard of my wellness center/vacation home. It’s six blocks from the four bedroom mansion where we sleep.

Backyard Lake with Clothesline Pole

Notice the bright yellow clothes line pole amidst the lake of our recent rains. Sorta hard to miss, isn’t it? I did that on purpose. I like clotheslines. I haven’t used one since I was…oh…say….10 years old, but I like clotheslines. It’s a strange obsession.

Did I mention I like clotheslines?

I’m not sure why I like clotheslines. Since the incident last night, I’ve been trying to analyze why I like clotheslines. I’m not really sure. Maybe it’s representative of a piece of my childhood. Maybe it’s part of my obsession with wanting to be self sufficient. Maybe I get some sort of sick humor out of watching a sexy 6’4″ hunk of man hang himself or bip his noggin’ on it.

Whatever it is, it is serious. I like my clothesline. I’ve begged for one at the mansion for years. Never got one. My wellness center/vacation house came with one pre-installed. Someone loves me.

Back to Tonka Toys.

Did I mention that HFB does not share my obsession with clotheslines?

It’s a detail relevant to our story here.

HFB has mentioned pulling it up a couple of times. The first time, it was because you couldn’t see it. So I painted it John Deere Yellow. As evidence by the photo above, you can see it now.

He’s hinted that the edges of the cross pieces are dangerously sharp and it needed to go. I diverted that conversation with a discussion of options for padding the ends of the poles.

Then I did something really dumb. I left him alone with his Tonka Toy on a beautiful spring afternoon while I went to relax my mind in the peaceful tranquility of yoga class.

Note to self: Bad idea.

We all arrived back at the mansion at about the same time. Conversation initiated. I had purchased some books at Barnes and Noble after my date with strength and peace. He had tilled, and mowed, and hammered, and pulled the clothes line up.

Hunky Farmer Boy with the Big Tonka Toy say what?

“You did WHAT??????????”

Now realize, that I don’t get mad at him. I just don’t. It just doesn’t happen. I pout occasionally when things don’t go my way (okay I pout every time things don’t go my way), but there just isn’t much in this world worth getting truly mad about.

Except extricated clotheslines. Apparently. Yeah.

He might as well have ripped my heart out of my chest, sacrificed my first born, and sold the horses.

“I thought we agreed to pull them up.”

“No. YOU agreed to pull them up.”

“We can set them up farther back out of the way.”

To myself: There’s a guy for ya. Who in their right mind wants the clothes line on the east forty, three hundred miles from the house?

To make matters worse, my girls were witness to this rare, almost unheard of episode of psychosis towards my sweet, hard working man. (I say those things to remind myself that I really do love him, murdered clothes line and all.)

And to make things worse still, #3 daughter, to whom I had preached just hours earlier about getting over her “mad” with her sister, a mad she had nursed for well over 24 hours, began to preach to me about how I needed to get over it like I told her to do.

Child, I birthed you. I can snuff you out. Better choose sides wisely. Besides, this is different. This is my precious CLOTHESLINE!!!!

Don’t you have a horse to ride or something?

And so the evening wore on. I grieved over my poor un-anesthetized clothesline being ripped from its ancient roots. I grieved over being mad at my sweet husband for something so…..<gulp>…trivial. I psycho-analyzed what kind of sick human could overlook a thousand other reasons to be angry in over 20 years, yet let Mr. Helpful rip out her precious clothesline and she blows an aneurysm.

I thought about his offer to “replant” it elsewhere in the yard. That made my chest tighten up with resentment. It doesn’t belong elsewhere in the yard. It belongs where it was. Where it’s been forever. It belongs right smack dab in the middle of the yard where every 6’4″ hunk that walks through can be tatooed with a divot in his forehead.

No. Just forget it. It’s gone. My precious yellow poles are gone. Send flowers. Memorials to the Murdered Clothes Line Association are also appreciated.

And then……

Finally…….

A moment of sanity.

Simple solution.

Mr. Tonka Toy could just put them back exactly like he found them.

EXACTLY.

In concrete.

That’ll teach him to pull up my baby with is big Tonka Toy.

And in a few years when I decide I want that danged clothesline somewhere else because I’m tired of strangling myself on the way to pick tomatoes, I’ll be more than happy to acknowledge that he tried to move the thing years earlier, but had to put it back IN CONCRETE no less because the nutcase he married had some weird survivalist obsession with a stupid clothesline.

Because if Mama ain’t happy, no one gets to be happy!

Oh, and Hunky Farmer Boy is grounded from his big Tonka Toy.

That’s all I have to say ’bout that.

Natural-ly, Powerful-ly, Amazingly Smiley

Several months ago, I worked through a book by Danielle LaPorte called Style Statement: Live by Your Own Design. I rock when I am living 80% Natural, 20% Powerful. You’ll have to read it understand what that means. Trust me, it’s cool mojo.

This time of year really makes me want to step up to the plate and be authentically natural and supremely powerful. The new life, the sights, the sounds, the smells, and yes, even the wind. I thought it would be a fabulous time to share some things that make my world Natural-ly, Powerful-ly Amazingly Smiley.

Just think about the raw power it takes for one of these to push through the soil, stretching, climbing, digging, and POP! No makeup, no skin care routine. Just plenty of raw natural beauty.


Times 20 (-ish)


Can tulips shave? These beauties have a five o’clock shadow that’s just a bit obnoxious!

And then there are these tulips……

Nothing says natural powerful like flying pony tails, tiger socks, and being a foot taller than every other nine year old.

And if that doesn’t suffice……..

Smoking everyone down the court and banking it off the glass right through the net is pretty powerful. So is being a foot off the floor AND a foot taller than anyone else this side of the Amazon. See a pattern taking shape?

And what could be more naturally powerful than a beautiful day of sun……..

And raw feminine power smacking a tennis ball. I pity the poor dudes on the other side of that net!

If that’s not enough natural power, how ’bout some man-made power laced with some hunky man power?

Yeah….I know. I’ve used this shot before. What can I say? This man on this tractor, says natural powerful on a level that sends me into orbit….with no rocket boosters necessary.

I think I hear a tractor. Better head to the farm. Somebody needs me. <wink-nudge-wink-grin>


Elephants are Stalking Me, but They Aren't Pink So I'm Still Sane

A few days ago, I mentioned some Wound-Licking, Truth-Telling, and Under-the-Bed-Clearing that I felt like needed my attention.

That began a series of dialogs with some close friends about how best to gently but effectively lance and lick those wounds without causing major collateral damage. Two important facts here: 1) I’m good at generating collateral damage, and 2) I suck at cleaning up collateral damage.

What can I say? It’s a gift. Call it like I see it. State the obvious, even when not politically or socially correct. I’m working on it. Have been since about second grade. Middle school wasn’t pretty.

Anyway, I made a conscious decision to publicly lick my wounds with gentle humor. Everyone needs to laugh. Laughter is good medicine as long as it isn’t directed at someone. Humor is just what the doctor ordered.

Then I began referring to these wounds as my elephant. I mentioned to others my need to exercise the elephant, maybe by airlifting it to Zimbabwe (do they have elephants in Zimbabwe? I wouldn’t want mine to be lonely.) I started thinking about the humor in seeing my situation as an elephant.

As my tired body headed to bed last night, I noticed my hubby had the TV on (as always) and he was watching some nature show….on elephants.

Ironic, doncha think?

Then this morning, I glance down and see my Animal Spirit Guides book laying there beckoning me to read from it. And being as to how my elephant was born in part because of my obsessions with supernatural possibilities and communication with the Divine, I glanced up and said, “So, ya got somethin’ ya wanna tell me, eh?”

And I opened the book to the page on elephants. That many elephants in that short a time span said to me that there was something I needed to hear, and since they weren’t pink, I figured I hadn’t lost my mind completely yet.

If ELEPHANT shows up, it means:

Do not let anything stand in the way of attaining this goal that is so integral to your purpose.

Neither rain, snow, sleet, hail, elephants, or credit card debt shall stand in my way.

You have the determination and persistence required to overcome the current challenges you’re faced with.

Yes, Ma’am. Dem things on my head would be bull horns. Git outta my way.

Trust your senses, and if something in your life “smells” bad, take the necessary action to do away with it.

That would be referring to the elephant poo under my bed. Anybody got a big shovel?

Remain loyal to those closest to you in spite of anyone questioning their integrity.

Well, that would fit any number of situations, past or present.

It’s a good time to renew your sense of connectedness to the divine.

Uhm…yeah…that’s part of what birthed this elephant in the first place, but hey, anyone wanna take me to the mountains? Or maybe I’ll just enjoy a bit of farm worship.

Call on ELEPHANT when:

There are mental, emotional, or physical obstacles in your path that seem to block you from achieving your goals or following your mission.

Okay, Mr. Suffleupagus. (I had to look that one up!) I dialed your number already. That’s why we are here. (Is he an elephant or a mammoth? Close enough.)

You’re feeling tired, weak, or depressed and want more energy and vitality.

Hunky Farmer Boy might appreciate this.

You want to feel more confident.

Darn tootin’. (oooo…those smell like elephant poo!)

You want to increase your libido and encourage romantic feelings.

Hunky Farmer Boy might appreciate this even more!

You find yourself in a position of power and responsibility, one that requires you to be a strong and effective leader.

I think self-employed (aka jobless) qualifies me on this one.

If ELEPHANT is your power animal:

You have an insatiable hunger for knowledge and continually seek to understand things.

Check. See my transcripts if in doubt.

You’re at your best doing some kind of political or social work or otherwise being in a responsible position of public service.

EWWWWW. Got that dirty, nasty, smelly t-shirt. Took me 13 years to bust outta that jail. I’m layin’ low for a while…..like ’til death.

You have an innate capacity for drawing on ancient wisdom and communicating this whenever appropriate.

I’m getting this out of an animal spirit guide book, aren’t I? And that innate capacity for drawing on ancient wisdom and communicating is the sperm donor of this elephant I birthed.

You’re a passionate and uninhibited lover who’s quite able to please and satisfy your partner.

Sounds like a good question for Hunky Farmer Boy. Oops! He’s snoring. Guess that means I’m REAL good.

Once you set your mind to something, there’s nothing that will stop you from obtaining it.

Mom? Dad? Anyone wanna weigh in on this one? Stop laughing and shaking your head. Determination is a good thing. Bulldozing through concrete walls with my noggin’ is a noteworthy talent, don’t you think? Never mind the blood and concussions. That’d be some of my infamous collateral damage.

Okay….yeah….Definitely thinking the Big Power is telling me something.

Watching Man-History Repeat Itself–It's All Mom's Fault

Yesterday I confessed to the many love affairs I have had in my life. I have had the housekeeper, the gardener, the farmer, the construction foreman, the electrical engineer, and more. And yes, they are all the same guy, my sweet man of 20+ years.

One might say he’s quite multi-talented……or you might say he’s a tad schizophrenic, which could certainly be a possibility as the only member of the male species living with five women, two she-dogs, a very fertile mama cat, and 53 laying hens. The lone tom cat and two horses aren’t much help. The horses are geldings, and the tom cat is just….well….he’s just Fred….a lap layin’, whiny, spoiled, hairband fetchin’, anything-but-a-tom’s-tom cat. So yeah….schizophrenia is certainly a possibility.

My mom, of course read my blog. So nice to have the parentals among a blogger’s loyal fans, even if they are reading out of obligatory parental guilt and a desperate need for self-preservation. My mom–the sweet, shy, try-not-to-rock-any-boats mom–informed me in no uncertain terms that  according to my criteria, she has had way more professional types than I have. I, of course, had to defend my honor by mentioning all the roles my guy has played that I hadn’t had the forethought to capture on a memory card.

Then it hit me. It was HER FAULT I had ignored all those other guys in favor of this one. It was HER FAULT my man criteria included “fix a toilet without calling a plumber”. It was HER FAULT that no man who required the services of a Quick Oil Change car care center ever stayed on my list of potentials longer than two seconds.

It is HER FAULT that both my husband and my father stare at 40 year old broken dishwashers with a gleam in their eye thinking of all the useful life that still remains.

Then it hit me harder. Dear Jesus, my daughters are doomed! I know this because #2 has told me so. Her view of her dad has established her man-criteria. Like a treasured family heirloom, we have ever-so-faithfully passed down the expectation that our men must be able to do anything and everything and that such skill, such vast knowledge, such raw masculine talent is a pre-requisite for making the cut.

I am grateful that my girls see their daddy as a pattern for what they want in a man, because that means I’ll have cool sons-in-law. It also means maybe I won’t have to worry about them finding a guy too soon. I know they exist, but these women will have to hunt them down and that could take awhile. Those who can meet the criteria are spread out a little bit farther, and they are a bit fewer in numbers, but I feel pretty sure there are still some in existence.

And I’m just pretty sure that before it’s all said and done, my girls will point a finger at me one day and say, “It’s YOUR FAULT!”

When it happens, I’ll look them square in the eyes and say, “You are MOST welcome!”

Confessions of a Desperate Small Town Diva

You just can’t keep a secret in a small town. Someone will eventually find out and then you’re busted. So, I have a confession to make, because it is time to come clean, and I’d rather break the news myself than be outed by everyone else.

Wow. This is so…uh….embarrassing. How to begin?

Yeah….so…..it’s like this. I get around. I’m not the nice innocent girl everyone has always thought I was. You see, I’ve been ….ahem….enjoying….my support staff. I figure a picture is worth a thousand confessions, so right here, right now, in a public forum, I’m confessing my obsessions.

First, let me say, I can’t help myself. It’s not that I WANT to be unfaithful. It’s just…well….a woman has needs. So yes, even though I’m madly in love with this man,

My Hubby

I’ve also “been with” my housekeeper.

My Housekeeper

And quite honestly, I find certain construction guys just irresistibly sexy….well, just one. I confess to having stooped to the level of hanging out at the construction site and flirting with this guy in hopes of getting noticed….or something……  ;-) I’ve even helped hold up a few pieces of sheetrock and stuffed some insulation in key places to get his attention. I think the construction guy may have fathered a few of my children. Construction rocks my world!

My Construction Engineer

Oh….and the yardman. He’s just so luscious. What’s a middle-aged diva to do?

My Yardman

 

Except stare at this…….It’s tiny, butt oh so cute!

My Yardman's Tush

Oh yeah….there’s this farmer guy in town…well, on the edge of town. He’s got a big Tonka Toy that I really like……I’m talkin’ about the tractor, Sillies!

The Farmer's Tonka Toy

 

And then there’s my occasional fling with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. What can I say? I’m into fantasy and role play?????

Santa Claus

Okay, so I couldn’t get him to wear the bunny suit. What’s it to ya????

My pool boy is a bit camera shy and prefers to remain anonymous, but I’ll catch him before long. I bet you’ll recognize him.

OMG!!!!! I can’t believe I almost forgot the tv repairman and my electrical engineer!!!! There is just NOTHING sexier than a stud in a bucket truck wearing a tool belt full of squeeze-ons and crimping tools. Just sayin………

I think there may be a few others. A girl like me sometimes forgets after there have been so many.

Gosh…..I feel so much better now. Confession is good for the soul, isn’t it?

Celebrating Life, Spring, and My Hunky Farmer Boy

It’s Easter Sunday morning, and for probably the first time since I was conceived, I won’t be at an Easter church service.

It’s been almost a year since we went to church….any church. It’s nothing personal at this point. I’ve just got better things to do. That used to really bother me, and I guess on some level it still does. Yesterday, I mentioned it to my Hunky Farmer Boy, and he suggested (rather tongue in cheek) we could instead have Sunrise Services at the farm. I followed up by noting that it probably would be more like a high noon service, because I seriously doubted anyone in our house would be up by sunrise ‘cept me.

“Worship” at the farm and wellness center has become something I look forward to more than any church assembly. There isn’t typically a Bible to be found, nor is there a schedule for announcements, singin’, prayin’, preachin’, and fellowship dinner. There is sunshine, God’s beauty, gratitude, new life, and loads of love. There are usually two or more gathered (most likely me and Hunky Farmer Boy), and there is no doubt whose name we credit with giving us such peace and amazing blessings. And while tiny cups of grape juice and stale, pasty cracker pieces are no where to be found, communion is absolutely, positively happening.

Instead of a baptism, we’ll walk around layin’ hands on our new fruit trees, saying a prayer over them and sending divine light energy up through their roots. We’ll feed, water, and otherwise care for God’s creatures including a couple of old horses, a whole lotta chickens, and some overly lovey-dovey cats. We’ll even partake of God’s blessings by gathering eggs and picking deliciously fresh asparagus.

Then, after a long, sweaty, and dirty day of our style of worship, HFB and I will sit together and watch as the sky turns to the most incredible shades of orange, purple, and pink while the sun sets on the horizon.

Just before heading back to “the house”, if all goes well, I’ll catch Hunky Farmer Boy alone and we’ll appreciate God’s gifts just a bit more. If he’s really lucky, we’ll add our own chapter to the book of Song of Solomon.

Yep, it doesn’t get much more spiritual than Song of Solomon, even on Easter Sunday.

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